The word “priorities” takes on several different meanings through the course of a lifetime. In 1988 in Orange County, California priorities were very much on my brain. As a typical eight-year old, a wife, kids and career were considered but not a major concern. There were many other goals much more pressing.
Marathon sessions of playing pretend in a suburban backyard were fueled by a fantasy/adventure aesthetic with a show-pop soundtrack. Thrift store coats and fluorescent shorts was traditional garb, plastic guns were commodities, crayons were used as cigarettes and fake mustaches were made with hair from mom’s hairbrush and two-sided tape. All that said to put into a context my bucket list at the time:

Have a miniature rideable train system installed in my house.

Partake in some international travel via large prop plane. I figured I’d just lower my fedora over my face, wake up 18 hours later and be in Burma.

From the woman who brought us Krispy Kreme Bread Pudding and Bacon Cheeseburger Meatloaf, comes the latest creation from Paula Deen’s kitchen: Type 2 Diabetes. With the discovery of her disease I have so many thoughts…

I will admit it, before the news of her diabetes I knew very little about what exactly she was up to in the kitchen. I heard plenty of jokes involving copious amounts of butter, buckets of sugar and rib-sticking recipes, but I never actually saw what these creations are. And now that I have seen them for myself I’m left thinking—this stuff looks delicious. I know that’s the fat guy in me (which also happens to be the same guy outside me) talking, but seriously, you have to admit that most of her creations sound pretty awesome.

Is there anyone in the food world that feels more anxiety about eating in public than Paula Deen? Every time she’s in LA and TMZ has some homeless looking man on assignment, pointing a camera with a half-mile zoom at her waiting for the perfect shot. Once she stops off for a chili burger, she’s got to know that she’s one jowl-popping bite away from joining David Hasselhoff in burger molestation infamy.

The line between down-home, southern quaintness and imbecilic lunacy can be paper thin, and some people walk this tightrope on ice skates.

Poverty has a taste. At least it used. A distinct one too. It was a cold meat-like disc topped with a dollop of ketchup and mustard, two slices of soggy pickles, all smooshed together between two stale pieces of cardboard resembling a Chinese hot bun. This is what a McDonalds hamburger looked and tasted like coming out of a refrigerator at 2 a.m. on a Saturday night in 1998. Why was it refrigerated you ask? Because back then, one day a week McDonalds was hockin’ these things for 29 cents. Customers were wanting to buy so many at one time that they had to put a 30-per-customer limit. This means once a week welfare families, gas station employees and starving college students like myself, would line up like Soviet comrades waiting for their chance to put down their collected dollar bills and loose change to buy “food” at a rock bottom price.
Like Egg Nog and McRib sandwiches this deal was so damaging to one’s health that it was

I don’t mean to sound like an old codger, but kids just don’t know how good they have it these days. Live TV can be rewound, hot pockets come in more flavors than ever and thanks to the internet pubescent angst is at an all time low. Or at least it should be. Ya see, back in the early 90’s if you were a boy full of hormones and loaded with questions you and your imagination were left to fend for yourself.
Growing up in a religious family in the small town of Grass Valley, CA conversations about sex were awkward to say the least. Whether it was at church, around family or with friends (oh who am I kidding, I had no friends at the time) the mere thought of sex was uncomfortable. Except for one place—The Record Connection. It was my Cheers. The place where every sexually suggestive poster in the back of the store knew my name. It was the only record store of note in Grass Valley, perfectly situated two doors down from our family grocer. Making the weekly trip into town for groceries a highlight of my week. The routine was pretty consistent: arrive at the store, get a cart and lay into the himming and hawing right away to express your manufactured boredom. Three minutes later inspiration would strike. I’d perk up and give a performance worthy of an Oscar, remembering there was a record store nearby. I would then excuse myself and was on my way to check out some “music.”
Once inside the store I would usually start browsing through the Neil Diamond section, then make my way

Does anyone out there remember the sex scene in the original Terminator? I was lucky enough to see the movie again last night and the years had caused me forget how tastefully done the erotica is. Reece and Sarah Conner have been through the ringer, running from an emotionless cyborg hell bent on killing them. Then they finally get some down time in a road side motel where they can make some pipe bombs and engage in coitus and James Cameron for once doesn’t go over the top. There are some shots

Tom Cruise is an enthusiastic guy. And why not? Blessed with good looks, a beautiful fake wife and a $20 million-a-film price tag; the guy has it made. Such zeal, however, pales in comparison to the pint-size actor's love for Scientology. Whereas intellectual curiosity and common sense fail to speak to Cruise, volcanoes and space aliens just makes sense. He doesn't just buy all the bull shit either...he sells it.